


they'll never get you right

by nahco3



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 03:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18229238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: Having almost everything you’ve ever wanted is pretty great. Most of the time.





	they'll never get you right

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song by Brandon Flowers.
> 
> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it

Klay knows how good he has it. He’s made a career, a life and four championship runs out of being in the right place at the right time. At the top of the key, coming off the screen just in time to catch the no-look pass, to hit the open three. On a team that’s been designed around him. Well, around him and Steph. Steph and him. In a city that loves him when he wants it and ignores him when he needs it.

Having almost everything you’ve ever wanted is pretty great. Most of the time.

\---

Klay’s been cold, nothing falling the way it should. Steph hasn’t mentioned it, but he and Steph are shooting around after practice. They used to do it all the time, together, almost every day, daring each other to make stupider and stupider shots: on one foot, with their left hands, from the tunnel. Now, not so much. Steph isn’t so much a person anymore as an MVP, a brand, a franchise. He has places to be.

Klay could have places to be too, if he wanted. He doesn’t. He’s always liked quiet, an empty gym, the bounce of the basketball. He was a weird kid with a couple of friends in his parents’ basement, up too late, laughing at nothing. Still is. Steph can have the rest of the world, if he wants it. It’s the world having Steph that’s hard to watch. 

They’re taking turns giving each other easy bounce passes, to practice getting their shots off quick. Coach Kerr thinks if Klay stops thinking about it, it’ll come back. Klay agrees, but thinks the problem’s bigger than that. 

He’s missed four in a row. Frustrated, he drives in and dunks, hanging from the hoop, shaking the glass. 

Steph says, “Now that you’ve learned to dunk, we should do some lobs.” 

Klay snorts. “I’ve always known how to dunk.” 

Steph smiles at him, crinkles around his eyes. “You know you want to try. Come on, imagine Dray’s face.” 

“Let him know I’m coming for his job, too.”

“After mine?” 

“Only one way they’re giving me the super max next year,” Klay says. “And I could have your job any time I want.” 

“Sure,” Steph says, his smile broad and deliberately skeptical. “Take me, then.” 

Steph’s standing at half court, his face perfectly plastic, his expression always how he means it to be, wearing joy and ease so loosely, like a crown. The ball cradled at his hip. Klay dives for him, quick, pushing into Steph’s space. He almost gets the ball before Steph turns, pressing his shoulder into Klay’s. Everything narrows down, the squeak of their shoes on the hardwood, the sweat along Steph’s collar bones, Steph’s hipbone against Klay’s thigh as Klay muscles Steph back. Klay’s the defender, everyone knows it. 

Steph’s laughing, driving his shoulder into Klay and trying to push by him, but Klay gets the ball, sending it bouncing along the court. Both of them run for it, but Klay gets it first and holds it above his head, like he’s a kid playing with his brothers again. Steph jumps for it and crashes against him, sending them both the ground in a tangle.

“Fuck,” Klay says, jarred. Steph is half on top of him, still laughing. “Flagrant foul.” Steph digs his elbow into Klay’s rib cage in retaliation. “Two flagrants.” 

A pack of people are descending on them from the edges of the room, but Steph’s precious knee is safe, his legs tangled up with Klay’s. Klay’s awareness of it burns through him, vicious, and he wants to kick Steph off him or pin him down. He does neither. 

Steph grabs the ball from where it’s landed next to them and shoots. The ball bounces off the backboard. 

“Can’t do everything,” Steph says. 

“You have to be careful,” Coach Kerr admonishes Klay, while an athletic trainer is giving Steph a hand up. 

“Any soreness?” the AT asks Steph.

At the same time one of Steph’s assistants is pushing a phone into his hand. “Um, Mr. Curry, you have your phone meeting with Under Armour about the girls’ shoe color schemes?” 

“Later,” Klay says, bypassing them all, heading to the locker room. Steph, in his huddle, phone to his ear, looks up, watches him go. 

\---

He goes out that night, scrolling through Instagram in the back of the Lyft. He put in an address in the Mission, just in case, but the driver’s benignly ignoring him, listening to KQED, and they drive across the bridge in silence. Klay goes through his DMs absently but it’s just the usual, nothing that he needs tonight and nothing funny enough to text out to the group chat. He puts his phone away, and holds himself still.

From the Mission, Klay walks to the Castro. It’s not far. The apartments get a little nicer: picture-perfect Victorians flying rainbow flags. He looks in windows, sees little dogs and kids toys, ugly art. He sticks his hands in his jean pockets against the cold and hunches his shoulders down. 

There’s a line outside the door but Klay ignores it, handing the bouncer a fifty. The bouncer gives him an acknowledging grunt and Klay ducks his head so he won’t hit the doorframe, and he’s inside. 

It’s stupid to go out like this; or at least, a poorly considered risk. Usually he only picks up in LA, at eastside bars with his high school friends, grungy and anonymous. But his new beard– _ha ha, good one, Klay_ –keeps him from being recognized. People expect him fresh-faced, Steph’s mirror image, not him with longer, darker hair.

He gets a beer and finds a quiet corner to stand in. An androgynous person with a shaved head and hoop earrings, who can’t possibly be 21, makes a blushing pass at him. A little later, an older guy, good arms, polo shirt. Klay waits them out, peeling the label off his beer. There’s still a charge under his skin from earlier, the dull ache in his chest sharpened and merciless. He bites the inside of his lip and thinks about heading home, disgusted with himself. He watches the crowd. 

Then he sees what he’s been looking for. A guy around his age, a little taller than average, but shorter than Klay. Dark, curly hair. Slim, a little muscular. Throwing his head back to laugh at a joke someone made, the flashing lights from the dance floor illuminating the hollow of his throat. Close enough. Klay was always going to, he knew, ever since he left his house in Oakland. But stepping towards the other man, making that first fatal choice, feels like swallowing a knife and a desperate drink of water. But he’s a professional athlete: He can play through anything.

\---

“I don’t usually do this,” the guy–Dan–says. They’re kissing in the half-lit stairwell of Dan’s apartment building, Klay pressing Dan up against the wall.

“Me neither,” Klay says, lowering his head and biting at the base of Dan’s neck, too hard, but there’s too much inside him to hold back. Dan gives a choked-off moan. 

They make it to Dan’s bedroom but not his bed. Klay goes down on him, hands firm on his hips, holding him against the wall. Klay keeps his eyes shut and rubs his thumbs across the jut of his hip bones. It’s impossible not to imagine: Steph’s hand tentative in his hair, the way he’d push forward against Klay’s hands, desperate for him. The harsh pants of his breath, the cut-off way he’d say, “God, God,” even more obscene coming out of Steph’s mouth.

“Please, please, oh please,” Dan begs, and Klay wishes he had told Dan his name.

After, Dan jerks Klay off, and in the low light of the bedroom, Klay throws his head back and bites his lip so hard he draws blood, comes shaking.

“We should do that again sometime,” Dan says, kissing Klay lightly, unaware of the blood in his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Klay says, heavy-limbed, senses dulled. “Give me your number, I’ll text you.” 

“What’s your name again?” Dan asks.

“Alex,” Klay says. His thighs are still shaking, tiny tremors he can’t stop. 

“So, uh, do you want some water?” Dan says. 

“I should go,” Klay says, “I have to walk my dog in the morning.”

“Cool,” Dan says, rolling over and pulling his sheets up. Klay gets dressed and goes. 

\---

“You look good, man,” Steph says, during practice. They’re shooting threes, next to each other. Not quite close enough for their arms to brush. Sometimes Klay wonders if every worthwhile second of his life has been spent on the court, looking at the basket, thinking about Steph.

Klay half-shrugs and sinks another. “I had some stuff I needed to work out.” 

“I get that,” Steph says. His voice is quiet, carrying only as far as Klay. Around them, practice is unspooling, the sound of whistles, the percussion of dribbling echoing around the gym. When Klay looks over at Steph, Steph is looking back. It makes it hard to breath, so Klay looks away, back at the basket, waiting for Steph to take his shot. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” Steph says, after a long pause. 

“You don’t know that yet,” Klay says, his fingers tracing the lines of the basketball he’s holding. 

“I know it,” Steph says, and shoots. 

\---

Dan and Klay mess around a couple more times, always at Dan’s. 

“Are your roommates weird about you being gay or whatever?” Dan asks. It’s a Saturday and an off-day, an impossible confluence of events. They’re lying in bed between rounds. 

“Yeah,” Klay says. Klay’s phone buzzes and Klay rolls over to grab it.

“Oh, is that your dog?” Dan asks, seeing Klay’s lock screen, a picture of Rocco at his favorite park. “He’s cute. My parents just got a puppy, want to see pictures?” 

“Sure,” Klay says, so they do that for a little bit, and then Klay pulls Dan in.

\---

It almost works. Klay can’t believe it. He walks onto the court lighter, looser, arms swinging and shoulders back. During intros, Steph stands next to Klay, bouncing on his feet, keeping his muscles warm, dialed in. The PA calls Klay’s name, second to last, like always, and like always, Steph follows two steps after Klay. So that when Steph’s name gets called, when Oracle explodes with sound, Steph’s already next to Klay in the huddle, with the team. And for once, in the screaming darkness, Klay feels the pressure of Steph’s shoulder and looks down to see the predatory spark of his grin and it barely cuts. 

After the game, they abandon KD to the reporters, Steph heading down the tunnel with the rest of them, the fans screaming down onto them. Klay wonders how Steph can stand the press of it. 

“Want to get dinner?” Steph asks. 

Klay shrugs, sweat cooling on his skin, halfway to shivering. He doesn’t know if he can handle sitting across from Steph, watching the crowd Steph draws. Pausing the conversation for selfies, Steph’s even smile through it all. He was going to see Dan. 

“Don’t think I can deal with all the,” Klay says, gesturing and not completing the thought. “I was gonna just go home and play some video games.”

“You could come to mine?” Steph asks. “I think someone gave me a Switch at something, you could help me set it up.” 

“I’d destroy you,” Klay says, but in the pocket of his jeans, his phone buzzes once and then twice. “But I gotta. Another time.”

“Yeah,” Steph says. “No worries.” 

\---

Their next game is good too. Klay is acutely aware of where Steph is, setting a screen or driving towards the basket, ready for the passes coming perfectly to him. He can feel the offense lock in, Copernican, around Steph. The trajectory of their movements perfect, the arc of the ball out of his hand light, high. Klay doesn’t resist the pull, knowing the pass will find him, his feet set, ready. 

Coach Kerr pulls them for the fourth, and Steph sits, towel draped over his head, thousand-watt smile shining right through Klay. Klay sits on the court at Steph’s feet, stretching his hamstrings as if that’s any kind of excuse. 

“Told you,” Steph says, nudging Klay with his foot so that Klay looks up at him. Klay does. Steph’s smiling down on him, dimpled, like they’re freshly drafted and figuring it out in a half-empty stadium together. “You just gotta trust me.” 

“Absolutely not,” Klay says. “Under no circumstances.” He looks up at Steph and then looks back down, feeling his face heating. 

“That hurts,” Steph says, leaning forward, so close that if Klay turns his head, he’s afraid his lips would brush Steph’s bare shoulder. 

“Go sit in an ice bath about it,” Klay tells him, keeping himself as still as possible. Klay can feel the huff of Steph’s breath against his cheek and he tenses, every careful piece of scaffolding around his heart collapsing. 

The game ends, and a scrum of reporters surrounds Steph. Klay fades back, watching Steph’s smile shift, ever so slightly, bending his head down to listen to a question. Klay walks down the tunnel, eyes down, consciously unclenching his jaw. 

Before he goes to shower, he texts Dan: _Tonight?_

When he gets back from the shower, Steph is just walking down the tunnel, alone. He has a trace of a limp and his head is hanging, his mouth a straight line. Then Iguodala calls, “Hey Steph, Dray wants to go out tonight, you in?” 

Steph’s shoulders go back, his smile comes back on and he steps into the locker room, as easy as anything. “Maybe not tonight,” he says, but by then Iguodala and Draymond have drawn him in.

Klay gets dressed with his eyes down. Dan texts back: _i have a big presentation tomorrow_

“Come out, Klay,” Draymond says.

“No,” Klay says, sitting down, resting his head in his hand. Three little dots: Dan’s still typing something, probably a politely-worded request for Klay to go be creepy at someone else. 

“Fuck off,” Draymond says. “Come out with us. It’ll be like 2015.”

“Dray,” Iguodala calls, “you coming or not?” 

“Coming,” Draymond says, looking over at Iguodala. 

Klay steals a look down at his phone. Dan’s sent a mirror pic of himself: his underwear slung low over his hips, cupping his dick with one hand. He looks just enough like Steph that it’s clear who he isn’t, just what Klay is doing. 

“Fine,” Klay says. “You win.” 

“You share a car with Steph,” Draymond calls to Iguodala, “Klay and I will take another one.” 

“Don’t worry,” Draymond says, “I got your back.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Klay says and Draymond laughs.

\---

It takes a minute to find Iguodala, Steph and the rest of the guys in the club. Draymond keeps running into people he knows, getting caught in conversations, and then someone wants a selfie and then everyone wants a selfie. 

Steph is in the back room, sitting in a corner booth, Livingston on one side of him, some people Klay doesn’t recognize on the other. Klay goes to the bar instead, lets Iguodala talk him into taking a couple shots, and then has the bartender pour him a generous double. He sits at the bar and watches their highlights on tv. He pulls out his phone and opens his texts with Dan, shuts them again. 

“Hey,” Steph says, sitting next to him.

“You lost your entourage,” Klay says, then takes a sip, as if he can clear the tension from his voice.

Klay looks at Steph. In the half-light of the bar, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. The athletic trainers have taped up one of his fingers, but Klay still gets lost looking at his hands, his blunt nails, delicate fingers, the corded strength of his wrist. 

He’s such a fucking idiot. 

“You ok?” Klay asks. “I saw you limping earlier.” 

Steph huffs out a little laugh. “Tweaked my ankle.” He holds up his hand, because he must be able to see the way Klay’s eyes get wide with instinctive panic. “I’m fine. Just didn’t need everyone—”

“To lose their minds?”

“Something like that,” Steph says. They sit in silence for a little bit. “You’ve been different,” Steph says, careful, his eyes on Klay. 

Klay takes a breath in and out, downs the rest of his drink to buy time. “It hit me, I guess,” he says. “That it’s ending.”

Steph looks like he’s about to say something but Klay cuts him off. “I know what you’re gonna say. That I should just focus on making the playoffs. That I shouldn't think about contracts. Blah blah.” Klay bites his lip but can’t keep himself from looking at Steph. 

“You want to stay,” Steph says, and Klay can’t tell if it’s a question or not. 

“I do,” Klay says, his voice too rough. 

“Then stay,” Steph says, eyes impossibly warm. “Don’t worry about Dray or KD. Just stay.”

Helpless, Klay says, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” 

“Why?” Steph asks, reaching out, touching Klay’s wrist carefully, because that’s something he can do without it wrecking him. 

“I gotta go,” Klay says, “sorry. I. Rocco,” and runs. 

\---

He sees Dan later that week. 

“How’d your presentation go?” he asks when he gets there.

“It was fine, whatever,” Dan says, already pulling off Klay’s jacket. 

“Right,” Klay says, undoing Dan’s belt, his hands clumsy. He feels stupid for asking. 

Klay fucks him, with Dan on his hands and knees, facing the wall. Klay makes sure Dan comes first before he rests his face against the back of Dan’s neck, shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine.

Afterward, lying in bed side by side Dan says, “I went on some dates with this guy who works at Google.” He stops. “He wants to be exclusive?”

“That’s great,” Klay says, voice flat, “I’m happy for you.” Dan gives him a weird look and Klay’s sighs. It’s not his fault. “Really, I am.” He gets dressed and finds his phone.

Dan walks him to the door, hands in his pockets, his feet still bare. 

“Take care,” Klay says, after he fiddles with the deadbolt and manages to unlock the door.

“See you around, Alex,” Dan says and stands on his tiptoes to kiss Klay’s cheek. 

\---

The next day they leave for a punishing East Coast road trip. Klay spends the flight with his head pressed against the wall of the airplane, looking out at the dark country below them, the golden spiderwebs of light. When he was a kid, traveling with his dad, he used to try to guess the names of the cities. 

Steph comes to sit in the seat next to him as the card game at the back of the plane is dying down. He’s wrapped in a blanket, wearing compression leggings, ice packs plastic-wrapped to his knees. He gives Klay a tired smile and falls asleep without even reclining his chair. Klay reaches across him to fasten his seat belt for him, so he won’t have to wake up until they land. Klay’s hands brush gently against Steph’s stomach, which is rising and falling. Klay tugs his blanket over him to cover him better and looks up to see Kevin Durant, seated across from them. His headphones are on and his iPad is out; he can’t sleep either, but his eyes are bright and alert. 

Feeling caught out somehow, Klay gives an apologetic half-shrug. KD looks at him and Steph for another long moment, before quirking his mouth at Klay, an expression that isn’t a smile but isn’t anything else either, then turns back to his iPad. 

Steph shifts in his sleep, turning to face Klay, his mouth soft and open and Klay gives in and lets himself sleep. 

\---

The season slides by, no matter how Klay tries to memorize and memorialize each one of Steph’s laughs, the crinkles next to his eyes, the way he can make Klay’s deadpan break. It hurts more, Klay thinks, making the most of it. He ignores calls from his agent, ignores his dad joking about the Lakers having cap space next year. 

As the playoffs approach, the mob of people around Steph grows: nutritionists, athletic trainers, his physical therapist, his assistant and his assistant's assistant, journalists and videographers. Klay isn’t the only one stockpiling memories against the end. 

They’re playing Charlotte at home, an afternoon game. It’s the end of the second quarter and Klay is sitting, drinking water and watching Steph, embracing the bitter burn of it in his throat. It would be worse not to feel it, when Steph goes down, off the ball. 

Boogie pulls him up, pointing at a wet spot on the court and barking something at the ref. Play goes on, Charlotte’s ball, a steal, and then Kevin brings it up and makes a long two. Steph is a step behind and when the buzzer sounds he’s carefully not-limping towards the bench, his face set. He makes eye contact with one of the ATs and shakes his head, short, just once.

Klay wants to throw up. He jogs to Steph, leaving KD to give the halftime interview, shouldering his way through the pack around him. Steph’s face is pale, smile pasted on. 

They walk down the tunnel, slowly, Klay trying to keep his body between the cameras and Steph. When they round the corner to the locker room, out of view, Steph stumbles and Klay reaches forward, instinctively, to steady him. He’s heavier than Klay expects, always, plays like he has hollow bones like a bird or an angel, when in reality he’s all hard-earned muscle.

“I got you,” Klay says, meaninglessly, and Steph wraps an arm around Klay’s back, putting his weight on Klay for his last hobbling steps to the ATs’ room.

Klay stands by the door, too large to fit inside, watching as someone takes off Steph’s shoes and someone else talks to him. 

“Thompson,” Coach Kerr calls. “Get over here, we have a game to win.”

Klay bows his head and goes. They win the game.

Afterwards, Klay does press, bending his head down so he can hear the questions. 

“Do you worry about Steph’s ankle?” someone asks him. “Do you think Steve Kerr should limit Steph’s minutes?” And his old favorite: “What would happen to the team if Steph missed the playoffs?” 

He does his best. He doesn’t know anything, which helps, because at least he can’t tell them anything. He keeps his face and his voice blank. 

Afterwards, he swings back through the locker room. It’s early still, and people’s families are milling around the locker room. Klay avoids them, heading back to the ATs’ room.

Steph is sitting on the exam bed, his ankle wrapped. 

“Just a strain,” he says, and Klay shuts the door and sits down next to him, light-headed with the draining of fear. 

“I thought that was the last game we’d play together,” Klay says.

“Nah,” Steph says, nudging their thighs together. “You’re gonna be stuck with me until I retire.” 

Klay looks at him, lost. “Don’t,” he says. Not now, he means. Not when he can still feel the adrenaline, fear circulating in his blood, pumped by his traitor of a heart. 

Steph smiles up at him, gentle. “You just gotta re-sign.” His eyes are clear, but Klay can see the ghost of tears there, the still-damp track of them. Klay follows it down to Steph’s mouth, helpless. Klay kisses him. 

Everything stops. Klay’s hands are on the table next to him, and he can hear the crinkle of paper as he shifts his weight. Steph’s lips are impossibly warm. Their noses brush. Steph reaches out, blind, and grabs Klay’s wrist. Klay breaks the kiss, his breath trapped in his throat. Silently, deliberately, Steph leans in and kisses Klay, tentative, until Klay surges forward, his hands coming up touch Steph’s arms, his thighs, his chest, uselessly, the kiss deepening. Klay bites Steph’s full bottom lip gently and Steph is closer to him than ever, leaning in towards him. Klay lets his hands rest, one of Steph’s hip and one spanning the small of his back. Klay’s breath is coming too fast, his pulse pounding through him. He breaks the kiss to press their foreheads together, trying to control himself. 

“Oh,” Steph says, touching his mouth. His pupils are wide and when Klay looks down, he can see Steph half-hard through his shorts. 

“Come home with me,” Klay says, reckless with hope.

\---

At Klay’s house, Rocco is there, wagging his whole body, overjoyed to see them both, weaving between Steph’s legs and almost knocking him over. 

“Easy, buddy,” Klay says and Steph laughs, getting down on the floor and letting Rocco give him sloppy happy bulldog kisses. 

“Ok, ok, Rocco, come on,” Klay says, luring him away from Steph and out into the backyard. Steph wipes his face with his sleeve. 

“I hope that’s not too gross,” Klay looks over and Steph is blushing. 

“No,” Klay says. “I mean, he’s a disgusting dog but I don’t care.” 

Steph flushes darker and knocks their shoulders together. “Good.” 

“You want something to drink?” Klay asks. He can’t believe this is happening, that Steph hasn’t — that Steph would. 

“No,” Steph says, and swallows. 

“Right,” Klay says. “Let me just feed this idiot then.” 

So Steph sits on Klay’s couch, doing who knows what, reconsidering everything, probably, while Klay measures out Rocco’s wet and dry food and Rocco runs around the kitchen barking in excitement. 

Klay puts Rocco’s bowl down and washes his hands, leaning against the sink for a second, trying to come up with some kind of plan. Make it last. Make it good. Be normal. He can do this.

“Well,” he says to Steph, “if you liked that incredibly erotic foreplay, just wait until he’s barking outside the bedroom door in twenty minutes.” 

“Can’t wait,” Steph says, and pulls him down for a kiss.

They make it to the bedroom eventually, laughing and running from Rocco, who started barking in alarm when he finished his dinner and found them tangled together on the couch, Klay’s shirt off.

Klay shuts the door and a few seconds later Rocco thuds against it. Steph is laughing, doubled over with it, and then into Klay’s kiss. Klay laughs too, amazed by it. How is this real.

“How are you real?” he asks Steph, pulling Steph’s shirt off. He’s drunk off kissing Steph, his lips buzzing with it. He kisses the dip of Steph’s collar bones and the hollow of his throat, reaches down and palms Steph through his shorts. 

Steph lets his head fall back against the door, pushes his hips forward, making small cut-off noises.

“Can I suck your dick?” Klay says, breathless with want. “I’ll. It’ll.” He leans forward to kiss Steph, trying to get himself back under control. “It’ll be good.”

Steph nods, shaking, and kisses Klay back, fierce. As Klay drops to his knees, Steph reaches down and grabs on of Klay’s hands, squeezing it tightly as Klay kisses his stomach, follows the trail of hair there downward.

“Oh God,” Steph says, crushing Klay’s fingers in his grasp when Klay sucks him down. “Oh.” He goes silent, and when Klay looks up, Steph’s biting the back of his other wrist to keep quiet. Klay squeezes Steph’s hand, trying to convey the impossible tenderness he feels. 

Klay strokes Steph’s hip gently, an anchoring touch for them both. Steph makes little muffled noises, starting to work his hips, and Klay shuts his eyes and loses himself in it, lets Steph take what he wants.

“Klay,” Steph says, his voice rasping. Klay pulls back, resting his head against Steph’s hips and palming himself through his shorts, painfully hard. He gathers himself and then looks up at Steph. 

“I’m,” Steph says. He looks down and fully body shakes when Klay wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Can we. Bed.” 

“Yeah,” Klay says, his voice rough. “Whatever you want.” 

In bed, Steph sitting up against the pillows and Klay straddling his thigh, Klay gets distracted again by Steph’s skin, the notches of his elbows. The muscles of Steph’s thigh as they shift against Klay’s cock. He can’t stop kissing Steph, either, over and over. Steph melts into him, his perfect impossible hands running up and down Klay’s back. 

Klay meant to draw it out, give Steph everything, but Steph gets a hand around Klay and Klay can’t keep it together, collapsing against Steph’s shoulder, unable to stop himself from saying Steph’s name again and again. Finally chasing his desperation for Steph over the edge, coming on both of them.

After that, he runs his hands over Steph’s stomach, rubbing the mess on Steph’s stomach and using it to jerk Steph off, messy and quick. Steph pants into his neck and shakes apart in his arms, silent.

\---

They wake tangled up together. It’s early, the grey light of dawn barely illuminating the room.

Steph has bruises along the dip of his neck, and on the back of his hand where he bit himself to stay quiet. His eyes flick to Klay and then back down to his hands. Steph pushes against the bruise on the back of his hand and Klay abruptly remembers his silence last night. 

Klay looks away, pulling the sheets up over him, suddenly vulnerable. 

“I should probably feed Rocco,” he says, finally, into the silence. 

“Yeah,” Steph says. “I should probably shower and go? I have an Under Armour thing, early.” 

“Ok,” Klay says. He looks over at Steph, desperate. 

“Ok,” Steph says, getting out of bed, naked and unselfconscious as if he were in the locker room. He grabs his clothes off the floor and leans in toward Klay, kissing him lightly on the forehead before going to the shower. Klay sits in bed for a long minute, his blood slowly going cold in his chest, before he can hear Rocco start to bark. 

\---

The sun rises over the Bay, gilding it iridescent silver, chasing the fog away. The light works its up the Berkeley hills. The air is still cold enough that Klay can see his breath in puffs and the grass is covered in a white crinkle of frost, Bay Area winter lingering into spring.

Rocco whines a complaint and when Klay ignores him, he sits down on the sidewalk, an immovable pile of bulldog, looking up with plaintive eyes.

Klay is still sore, the usual aches and pains from the game: a bruise growing on his hip from taking a charge, the skin gone from his left palm when he caught himself skidding across the hardwood, a muscle strain in his calf he’s been nursing for a few weeks now. The fucked-out laxity that still isn’t gone. The nausea and the crushed feeling in his chest, like his ribs had collapsed in on themselves. 

“Sorry, buddy,” he says to Rocco. He pulls at the leash and Rocco grudgingly stands up. They walk down the hill to a coffee shop, where Klay sits for as long as he can, a cup of coffee growing cold next to him, the _Chronicle_ unread in front of him. He left his phone at home.

Finally, he can’t bear it anymore. 

The door is unlocked; the house is empty. Steph didn’t leave a note, but he did make the bed before he left. Klay collapses into it, pressing his face into the pillows and giving in to everything he feels. 

\---

Practice is hell. Klay can’t look at Steph. He can’t catch his breath when he does, his chest too heavy to rise and fall. He keeps his eyes on Coach Kerr, as though they haven’t run these drills hundreds of times already. The athletic trainers have already cleared Steph’s ankle, and Klay should be happy. He should be happy. 

He ducks out of shooting, telling Coach Kerr he wants to review some tape. When he’s heading off the court he looks back and sees Steph, standing in their usual corner, ready to start shooting his threes. Steph looks back at him and Klay ducks away from the eye contact, everything written on his face. 

In the dark of the film room, he watches the Nuggets run play after play without seeing any of it. He can still feel Steph’s hands on his skin. 

Eventually, the tape ends. He heads back to the locker room, hoping practice has ended. It has, but Steph is sitting in front of his locker, on the phone with someone. When he sees Klay coming Klay can hear him say, “Let’s get back to this later. I have to go.” 

Klay stops in front of him and makes himself meet Steph’s eyes. If he can play a game seven, he can do this. He can keep his voice level and his face blank.

“Hey,” Steph says. He’s wearing a t-shirt today, Klay can’t help but notice, the marks on him hidden away.

“Sorry about this morning,” Klay says. “I was weird.”

“It’s cool,” Steph says, visibly nervous. “It’s not something you usually do. Or maybe it is. It isn’t for me.” He presses his lips together like he’s trying to keep himself from saying anything else.

“Don’t worry about it,” Klay says, wishing he could cut his heart out of his body. “It happens.”

“It does?” Steph asks, with a quick intake of breath. “Oh.”

“So we’re good?” Klay says. 

“Yes,” Steph says, meeting Klay’s eyes, steady, his hands clasped tight in front of him.

“See you around, then,” Klay says, shouldering his bag and walking out. 

\---

It should get better, but it doesn’t. Steph is always there, in his peripheral vision on the court, next to him in practice, silent as they shoot. Steph leaves early, getting interviewed for some big story with ESPN before the playoffs start. The memory of him is everywhere in Klay’s house, everywhere he looks. When he sleeps, he dreams of Steph’s touch, his voice. He wakes up and doesn’t remember what Steph said.

They fly to New Orleans. Klay sits in the front, with the old guys who like to sleep, headphones on, lights off. He thinks about nothing. 

Steph sits down next to him. Klay shuts his eyes. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, and Steph can’t be fooled. But he sits there, next to Klay in silence, until Klay can’t help but let his breath sync up with Steph’s. Until his hammering heart slows, stupid, still desperate for Steph’s nearness.

Klay feels the soft touch of Steph’s hand on his arm. He stays still. Steph rests his hand there for a moment. 

“Alright,” Steph says, very quietly, maybe not even meant for Klay. He moves his hand but Klay can still hear his breath, wet. 

“Steph,” someone calls from the back of the plane, “get your ass back here.” 

“Coming,” Steph calls, and Klay opens his eyes just in time to see Steph pulling a smile onto his face and leaving. 

\---

Curfew comes and goes, and Klay’s pacing his hotel room, unable to sleep. It’s late but it doesn't feel like it. Outside, the sky has the sick orange glow of light pollution.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Steph: hair wet from the shower, in an old Warriors shirt, Warriors sweats, bare feet. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot. The hum of the air conditioning is loud between them.

“You’re still up,” Klay says, inanely. He flops down onto the bed, diagonal. Steph stands next to it for a long second before he perches on the edge. Klay’s too aware of the weight of him, the pull of his body. He looks up at the ceiling. 

“You should still re-sign,” Steph says. “I shouldn’t be the reason you don’t.”

It’s so far from what Klay was expecting he barks out at laugh. “Don’t bullshit me. If they can’t pay me it’s because they paid you. If I stay here I’ll never be —” He breaks off. 

“You don’t care about that,” Steph says, insistent. 

“You don’t have to care about that,” Klay says, “because you’re Steph fucking Curry. I’m not.” 

Steph lets out a long, slow breath. Klay risks a look over at him and he’s looking down, the sweep of his lashes dark against his skin. Klay sits himself up and hunches in on himself, as far from Steph as he can, curling around his chest as if there’s anything left he can protect.

“I’m sorry,” Steph says, finally. “I shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have.” His voice is rough. 

“You wanted to see if you could,” Klay says, keeping his eyes carefully on the wall in front of him. “Well, you can. You can do anything. Good for you.” 

Steph’s breathing comes harsh and then harsher. When he speaks, his voice is wet. “I can’t. Klay. You know I can’t. You have to know.” Despite himself, despite everything, Klay’s still drawn to him. He unfolds himself, reaching out but not able to touch Steph, feel his heat and softness. Everything in Klay is ash. 

“I know I fucked up,” Klay says. Steph is limned in gold from the lamplight, and more than ever, it feels impossible that Klay was ever able to touch him. “I didn’t think.” He exhales through his nose. Everything, even fear, feels distant to him. It’s over, he knows. The next two months will be him bleeding out from a self-inflicted wound. “I thought I would be fine if it was just once.” 

“Klay,” Steph says, “Klay?” His face is exhausted and beloved. “You.” There’s just the edge there of his usual smile, an incredulous and impossible light in his eyes. “You idiot.” 

He’s crossed the gap between them, the sun coming out across his features before Klay can understand it, his hands on Klay’s shoulders, his legs between Klay’s knees. He kisses Klay, and Klay’s powerless against it, pulling him in. The scratch of his beard, the clean toothpaste taste of his mouth, the worn softness of his shirt, the curve of his spine under Klay’s hands. 

“You stopped talking to me,” Steph says, tugging at Klay’s shirt but Klay won’t take his hands off of Steph long enough for him to do it. 

“Self-preservation,” Klay gasps into his mouth. “My bad.” He can almost span Steph’s waist with his hands; a revelation. 

“I hated it,” Steph says, rolling his hips towards Klay, and Klay gets a hand on Steph’s ass, feels a shudder run through him. 

Klay can’t speak, from the emotion, from need. Can’t comprehend Steph as vulnerable to him. He works Steph’s sweats off, his knuckles brushing the soft unseen skin, high on Steph’s inner thighs. 

“Please,” Steph says. “Klay.” Klay kisses over Steph’s breast bone, over his caged heart, letting his world narrow down to the two of them, to Steph’s soft gasps and the movement of his hands, to the weight and the pressure of him. Holds him tight enough to bruise, just in case.

“I have you.” Klay presses the words into Steph’s skin as if this can make them true. “I have you.”

“God, Klay,” Steph gasps, and kisses him again and again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [jamwingles](http://jamwingles.tumblr.com) for Klay facts and for making this smarter and better and to [Lee](http://lilah80.tumblr.com) for her help and support, always.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming about basketball and so much more.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [they'll never get you right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18596989) by [Constance_JUN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Constance_JUN/pseuds/Constance_JUN)




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